


A Recipe for Relief

by musingmidge77



Category: Leverage
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Eliot cooks, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21925438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musingmidge77/pseuds/musingmidge77
Summary: The anniversary of Sam Ford's death looms near and Nate falls into the bottle. Eliot may be angry with Nate, but he'll be damned if he lets the mastermind drown.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48
Collections: 2019 Leverage Secret Santa Exchange





	A Recipe for Relief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drneroisgod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drneroisgod/gifts).



Eliot could track the day by Nate’s behavior better than with a calendar. The anniversary of Sam’s death loomed closer each day. And with every turn of the day by day calendar, Nate became moodier. 

The empty glasses and bottles more plentiful. Which is how he ended up in a bar at this ungodly hour when he could have been home reading his novel. Or tending his plants; anything was better than this. 

Of course, by the time Eliot arrived, Nate was surrounded by much larger better functioning alcoholics. “See the difference...see, the difference between me and you...is you’re not doing anything with  _ your  _ lives. I...” The mastermind swayed on his feet. “...I am making a difference.”

Eliot knew guys like the ones staring Nate down. Tired. Angry. And now this uppity guy telling them that their lives don’t matter.

Dispatching the men wasn’t a difficult thing. He tried to talk them down first of course. “C’mon, guys, he’s a harmless drunk. He don’t even know what he’s saying.” 

But Nate had them so riled up the only way to work off the frustration was a good fight. “ So, you’re like him, huh? Think our lives don’t matter. Thinks he’s so high and mighty. Never heard of him before.”

Another, larger man stood beside the first one. “Seems to me this guy is just like Mr. Loudmouth there. Maybe we should teach them both a lesson.”

Eliot held his hands up in a placating gesture. “I don’t wanna hurt you guys. I know how it is.” He understood where these guys were coming from. 

He understood more than people gave him credit for. If he understood anything; it was death. He had suffered plenty of loss in life. Lost family, lost brothers in battle, lost lovers.

But no amount of talking made this situation any better. These men were mad and were Jonesing for a fight. That was okay with Eliot. He hadn’t punched anything in a few days. 

Yeah, he understood how they felt better than they thought. 

A child is something he had never lost though, as Nate was quick to remind him. “You don’ know, ‘liot,” he slurred. “You know. But you don’t  _ know _ .”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it before. If I’m so out of touch, why’d ya call me and not Sophie? Huh?” 

Dealing with Nate sometimes was difficult enough. But a drunk mastermind...fantastic. He manhandled the taller man to his truck and shoved him in the passenger’s seat, leaned in to buckle him in. 

“Fuck you.” The words drifted over his skin leaving the stench of cheap whiskey in their wake. Which of course did nothing for the scent of an unkempt Nathan Ford that currently permeated his truck. 

Counting to ten as he walked in front of the headlights to the driver’s side only managed to calm him a fraction. He slammed the door. “Fuck me, Nate? I’m the one picking up your sorry ass again because you got hammered and almost got killed at a bar! I do everything you ask of me. Everything. I could just as easily leave you here and let you get killed. But here I am, picking you up and the thanks I get is a fuck you. You’re a piece of work.”

He yanked the gearshift into reverse and sprayed the cars beside him with gravel as he swung around and tore out onto the road. 

“Uh oh. Lil’ Eliot is angry.” Nate’s voice took on a sing song lilt. 

“Drop it, Nate. 

“Or what? Drop it or what? I’m the mastermind. Not you. You’re the...you’re the muscle.” 

Eliot slammed on the brakes and looked hard at the man beside him. “Yeah. I’m the muscle. I get that. You told me on our first job that we ain’t friends, remember?” 

He thought about throwing Nate out on the side of the road. But he didn’t want to face Sophie. 

He was  _ not  _ afraid of Sophie. He wasn’t. But psychoanalysis was not his favorite pastime and he didn’t want to have a talk about why he would do such a thing.

_ Just get him home and shove him in bed, Spencer. Let him deal with his own shit.  _

Nate sighed heavily. His dark head rested against the window. “She said she misses the dinners,” he whispered.

Eliot wasn’t in the mood to decode drunk speak at all. “Who misses what?” He heard the growl in his  voice, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. 

“Maggie.” Bloodshot eyes met Eliot’s. “She says she misses the family dinners. The big homecooked meals. Says we never talk anymore. Since Sam-” His head fell back to the window. “Hell, she’s right. I mean we shared a life once. Now I struggle to say hello.”

This could not be happening to him. Eliot inwardly groaned. “Look, you’re right. I don’t know nothing about losing a kid. But losing a woman you once loved-”

A loud snore broke the aura of seriousness. Eliot shook his head. “Dammit.”

.

.

.

Nate awoke to the familiar pounding in his head. Another hangover. They became more frequent as the date he lost his son drew nearer.

He held his head in his hands to keep it from splitting apart. Functioning alcoholic was an oxymoron on days like this. After a stop in the bathroom, he headed downstairs.

Activity in the kitchen didn’t surprise him as much as it should have. 

“Kind of early don’t you think, Eliot?” Keeping any member of his team out when they wanted in was a fruitless endeavor. Even when he changed the locks on a semi-regular basis.

“Not bad for the muscle, huh?” Eliot didn’t look around. Just poured hot water from the kettle into Nate’s mug. 

Nate felt himself cringe. So, Eliot remembered what he said in his inebriated haze last night. While the word  _ just  _ hadn’t been spoken, the implication was there. “Look, Eliot, what I said-”

He turned and set a steaming mug of liquid none too gently in front of Nate. “Nothing I ain’t heard before. Drink it.”

Nate eyed the steaming yellow tinged liquid. All the ways the hitter was proficient in killing crossed Nate’s mind. “Uh...what is it?” He sniffed at the drink. 

Blue eyes pinned him in place. How many people had this been the last thing they saw? “What’s the matter? Don’t trust me? Trusted me enough to pick you up last night.” Eyebrows raised in a challenge. 

For all the times he’s called the mastermind of the group, Nate couldn’t let the challenge go. “You saw the situation. I needed muscle.”

Eliot’s eyes narrowed even further. “Yeah. Because your mouth is writing checks your ass can’t cash again.” He motioned to the steaming mug. “Ginger tea. With honey and lemon. Will help the hangover. You’re welcome. Again.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He sipped the tea even though his stomach wanted to rebel. “Why are you here so early? We don’t have a job.”

“Drink all that. We’re going out.” His tone left no room for discussion. 

“Why? You know I don’t feel like going out. I have work to do. Client lists to look at.” Travelling with an upset Eliot didn’t sound appealing. 

“They can wait. We have work to do.” He tossed Nate’s jacket over, then donned his own before stalking out the door. 

“Fantastic.” Nate finished the tea and followed the hitter. 

.

.

.

Nate balanced two bags as he unlocked his door. His stomach had  felt better after drinking Eliot’s tea concoction. Grocery shopping with a hangover would not have been fun. 

They deposited their purchases on the counter and Eliot wordlessly started gathering pots and pans. “Why did we have to go to the market? I have food here.”

“You don’t have good food here.”

“What’s the difference? I make meals just fine. I’m not starving.”  _ Get off my case.  _ He started  the coffee brewing and watched  Eliot spread ingredients  across  the island.  Beef, wine, spaghetti noodles.  Leave it to Eliot to wa nt to cook after the argument they had.

A knife that looked better suited for a horror movie appeared on the counter along with celery, onions, and carrots.  “Not starving ain’t the same as eating good.”

Eliot tied a red bandana from his pocket  around his head to hold his long hair out of his face. The blue of his eyes  looked somehow colder without the  curtain of hair to soften them. Colder. Deadlier.

The knife took  precedence over everything  now .  “So, Eliot, what are you gonna do with that knife?”

He paused .  Looked confused.  “How else am I gonna make the mirepoix?”

“Make the what now?”

“The mirepoix. It’s chopped celery, onions, and carrots. It’s the base of  a lot of Italian dishes. And  we need a good knife for that.”

Nate took the second knife the hitter offered. “We? What do you mean we?”

“The homecooked meal. Spaghetti is boring with the store-bought sauce. This is Bolognese sauce. An authentic Italian sauce. Of course, I tweak it a little.”

Nate stared as Eliot began chopping carrots. “The homecooked meal? What meal? What are you talking about?”

“You do the celery.” He slid the bundle over to him.  “We need quarter inch pieces.  Make them uniform.”  The knife thunked  rapidly  against the chopping board  as Eliot chopped carrots.

Okay. So, we’re doing this. Nate grabbed the knife and began to chop. Much slower than Eliot, but he was chopping.

If he  were honest, he  wasn’t as relaxed as  the hitter appeared to be.

“Not like that.” The gruff voice cut through the silence as efficiently as  the younger man’s knife.  “Quarter inch. Those are way too big.”

Annoyed, Nate snapped, “What…are you going to measure them?”

“If the pieces aren’t _uniform,_ they won’t cook evenly. The base of the recipe sets the stage of the entire dish. Small pieces not only cook more evenly, it gives the sauce a more consistent texture.” He snatched the blade from Nate’s hand. 

“What does a consistent texture have to do with anything? Sauce is sauce.” He couldn’t hide the jump as Eliot’s palm slapped the counter.

“Sauce is _not_ sauce. When this is finished, if you can taste it and say it tastes like store-bought…I might kill you.” The way he pointed at him with the blade made Nate believe it. 

His unease increased  when Eliot stepped closer. “Hold the knife like this.”  He shoved the h andle  into Nate’s grip and adjusted his hold. “Don’t put your index finger on top of the blade. I t gives you no control . Thumb here, index finger curled  on the other side. Keeps your fingers out of the way . More control, less injury.” 

Nate hoped the hitter didn’t see the wince as  he adjusted his fingers around the handle of the knife.  Again, he was reminded of the  controlled danger in the man beside him.  Why the hell  did he insist on testing Eliot’s patience?

“What’s to keep me from cutting the other fingers off? ” He couldn’t seem to shut up when poking Eliot. 

He raised an eyebrow and hel d up a fist.  Nate  looked at him with one squinted eye. “You don’t have to hit me!” 

Eliot sighed and loosened his fingers into a more claw like shape. “Keep your fingers curled. Keeps them out of the way while still holding the vegetables in place.”

While Nate continued working on the vegetables, Eliot began prepping the pot . “That looks good. Finish the rest of those. I’ll get the  pancetta diced and rendered.” 

.

.

.

The easy  rhythm  they fell into while Eliot taught him about cooking the sauce and how to check the texture surprised Nate.  Eliot seemed to be the most well rounded of any member of the team. 

While it was true the hitter was the muscle and often their escape route, he had interests that fell outside his role in the group. Even though he could break bones and plow through numerous foes, he had a gracefulness about him in the kitchen. 

Eliot sat at the table while  the sauce cooked . He checked the sauce periodically and read a novel the rest of the time.  His quiet patience  was impressive.

Nate on the other hand, took a shower and looked over client lists during the three hours it took the sauce to cook. He narrowed down the long list to two potential clients when Eliot called him over. “It’s finished. Come check this texture, Nate.”

Nate  looked over the shorter man’s shoulder as he lifted the lid.  The wooden spoon carved a path  as Eliot stirred. “See how it’s a darker shade of red?”

He was right. There was a differe nce to the Bolognese now.  “Yeah. I see that. It looks thicker too. Right?”

Eliot smiled  at him over his shoulder. “It is.  Good eye. Have a seat. I’ll plate some up with the spaghetti. Let you taste it.”

Both men sat at the table with steaming plates of food.  “Take a bite of that. Ain’t like no store-bought.” 

It smelled delicious, and Nate got a big forkful of food.  “Mmmm. This is amazing, Eliot.”

A big  smile spread across Eliot’s fac e. “So…sauce is sauce, huh?”

“No way,” Nate replied as he shoved another forkful  in his mouth. 

They ate in companionable silence , enjoying the food.  Eliot finished first and stared at his plate . Finally, he broke the silence.  “I know  you think I don’t  _ know _ . I know you’re hurtin’, Nate. I know the anniversary of Sam’s death is coming up. ”

“Look , Eliot, I’m sorry-“

Eliot  held up a hand to silence him. “You don’t have to explain anything to me . I get it. Losing someone you love…it’s never easy. ” His gaze met Nate’s. 

He didn’t trust his voice, so Nate nodded.  Blinked the tears from his eyes. 

Eliot stood, picked up the empty plates. “Cook this for her.  Give her a homecooked meal. Sometimes, a little taste of what used to be is what you need.” He put the dishes in the dishwasher, put on his jacket, and left. 

Nate  watched the door Eliot had just closed.  Just the muscle indeed.


End file.
